Unfamiliar Faces

Brushfire;
2008

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Whether it's the jaunty player piano that kicks things off, Matt Costa's
over-syllabified singing of the title, or just due diligence on his bio,
there's plenty of ways one can deduce that "Mr. Pitiful", the first
single from Unfamiliar Faces, is not autobiographical. Indeed, it's a
send-up of an upwardly mobile peer that implies that Costa's been listening to the National recently. But while the latter's ascendance has coincided with
their increased willingness to empathize rather than accuse, as a kid from
Huntington Beach barely in his mid-20s, Costa just kinda sounds like a dick--
"I hope you see through your big yard and white picket fence...don't make me
feel bad that we're still friends."

So if Costa makes it appear that home-ownership is the realm of true squares,
it's easy to chalk it up as a collateral effect of trusting your major label
debut to the hands of Jack Johnson (who released Unfamiliar Faces on his
Brushfire imprint) and producer Tom Dumont (clearly with some time on his
hands, post-No Doubt). I'd imagine most people reading this actively loathe
Johnson not so much for his music, innocuous to the point of invisibility, but
for a McConaughey-esque ascription to carefree living that is feasible only
after achieving massive success; paradoxically suggesting money can buy
happiness. And as was the case with Rogue Wave's most recent album, as well as
Johnson's, the holistic vibe undermines just about any chance Costa has of
showing a dark side or artistic unrest, leaving mostly a chamber-singer/songwriter
record for people who think Kelley Stoltz is too edgy or are scared that Sondre
Lerche might not speak English.

Certainly there's more to Costa than a one-man acoustical jam, even if his
pleasure zone isn't far from the AM Gold dial. "Lilacs" evidences a
proclivity for psych-tinged lyrics ("I choked on your kaleidoscope"),
and I won't even knock its frothy David Gray guitar strum; the track
itself sorta outstays its welcome. There's plenty of nice production touches
from Dumont, like the acid-washed backing vocals of the title track and the
Stephen Street-tipping tones of "Vienna". But when Costa tries to
convincingly ply his "hypochondriac blues" on "Emergency
Call", he's clashing with overly peppy horn charts. And then there are the
times when Costa's got no one to blame but himself: "Cigarette Eyes"
hosts one of the more baffling metaphors this side of Tom McRae and has an
undercurrent of domestic violence, but Costa slowly lets the air out with a
chord progression too ambitious for his melodic sense and an unrealistic Brit
affectation.

It's unfair to write off these guys completely considering Radiohead is
signed to a label that owes its creation to Dave Matthews. But thus far,
Brushfire (whether intentionally or not) is keeping their artists on a tight
leash. Whatever Costa is attempting to convey in "Trying To Lose My
Mind", it gets lost in a Johnson-worthy platitude: "Put it in a song
and I know we can get along." But when "Miss Magnolia" tries its
hand at applying that philosophy to a Grateful Dead tribute, it ends up
sounding way too much like Mungo Jerry to be unintentional. Really, in the way
that Johnson embodies the Hawaiian lifestyle, Costa reps for Huntington Beach--
an archly conservative dreamland that most of its residents secretly wish they
could leave.